Where You Gonna Run To?

Epilogue

"Please, John."

"No." (Why am I with a petulant mad man?)

"It would make me happy."

"Peace and quiet would make me happy, but that's not going to happen, is it?" (What am I doing here?)

"I'll be quiet."

"No, you won't. You'll shout and throw things about before you throw yourself onto the sofa to sulk." (Should I give in?)

"I will not."

"You did last time." (Do I have the willpower for this?)

"John, I'm losing my mind."

"I don't care." (Why do I love him?)

"John…"

"Don't look at me like that." (How can I love a lunatic?)

"Like what?"

"Your face. Right now." (How can I resist?)

"I don't understand, John. I just want one game of Cluedo."

"I said no," said John firmly.

He stood and pulled the knife out of the wall, grabbing the Cluedo board and binning it in the kitchen. Sherlock rolled his eyes and flung himself onto the sofa, his dressing gown pooling around his waist. John sighed and returned to the sitting room.

"I don't see why we don't just have sex," said Sherlock casually as he picked a medical journal off the coffee table.

"Because we did it in the shower," said John, "about a half hour ago."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what is your point? I fail to see how that is relevant from my current desire to partake in sexual intercourse with you."

"Because there's a thing called a sexual refractory period, Sherlock," said John sternly. "And I'm not twenty years old anymore. So you have to give it some time."

"By 'it,' I'm assuming you mean your penis."

"I…"

John sighed and tried to glare at Sherlock as best he could, who was smiling as he flipped through the journal, not really reading any of the articles.

"Don't look so damn pleased with yourself," said John irritably as he lifted Sherlock's feet and sat, laying Sherlock's feet back across his lap.

"I had no idea I had fucked all the energy out of you," muttered Sherlock as he held up the journal to hide his face.

"That's not what I said," said John, grabbing the journal from Sherlock's hands and throwing it aside.

"You're the doctor," said Sherlock simply, "so I'll just have to take your word for it that you need at least a half hour."

John had been going slowly but surely insane. A very large pile of paperwork had brought Sherlock officially back to life, but their blogs were both dead. They had blown up when the news first broke a few weeks back. Now, however, they had yet to receive any clients worth their time. Only a few desperate ones had come calling, and Sherlock had refused to take them. His reputation still hadn't recovered, and Lestrade was uneasy about giving Sherlock anything. This meant that Sherlock spent a lot of time in the flat waiting for John to come home from work.

"Fine," said John suddenly. "Get over here."

Sherlock sat up, a satisfied smirk on his face, when his mobile rang. He rolled his eyes, walked across the table, and snatched it off the desk. He eyed it for a moment before answering.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said swiftly.

A smile broke out on his face, and he turned to John. He said a few short words and then hung up the mobile, looking very pleased.

"Who was that?" asked John.

"Lestrade," said Sherlock quickly as he went to the bedroom and began changing into a suit.

John followed and said, "Has he got something for you?"

"Sixth in a series of serial killings," said Sherlock, buttoning up his shirt. "The Chief Inspector has requested me."

"Requested you?"

"Well, an inquiry did reveal that I had no involvement in any of the cases I solved. So, perhaps, this is my opportunity to begin restoring my reputation."

John smiled and walked around the bed as Sherlock pulled on his jacket. He straightened and brushed off a bit of lint.

"If you're willing," said Sherlock, "I'd appreciate your company."

"I get to write whatever pun I want as the title of my blog post," said John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed past John to pull on his coat in the hall. John chuckled as he put on his jacket, and they were out the door, with Sherlock tying his scarf.

Lestrade was waiting at the crime scene, with Anderson glaring from the sidelines, and Donovan looking everywhere except at the two of them. The Chief Inspector stood not far away, eyeing Sherlock closely. The body a man was on the ground, his eyes closed, and a y-shaped cut on his chest, stitched up as if he'd had an autopsy performed.

"We're still working on identifying him," said Lestrade, "but he's just like the others."

"I've read it in the paper," said Sherlock quickly as he stared down at the body. "A skilled cut, must be an experienced doctor or surgeon who does it, wouldn't you say, John?"

They both knelt beside the body, and Lestrade waited patiently, his arms crossed.

"Looks like," said John.

"Let's assume," sad Sherlock, "that this victim, like the others, was cut open, had his heart removed, and then been stitched up like the others."

"Anderson said there are no finger prints on the body," said Lestrade as Sherlock pulled out his pocket magnifying glass.

"I'd prefer to utilize actual intelligence to determine whether or not Anderson made a proper observation for once in his life."

Anderson scoffed and opened his mouth to say something, but Donovan placed her hand on his shoulder. John locked eyes with her, and he couldn't help but feel sorry for her. There was a deep frown on her face, and she looked terribly distraught. (How guilty is she?)

"So how are things?" asked Lestrade.

John opened his mouth to speak, and Sherlock stared at Lestrade as if he'd grown a second head.

"Are you making small talk?" asked Sherlock incredulously.

"I'm just talking," said Lestrade.

"Don't," said Sherlock sharply. "I need to think, and that's difficult enough as it is with Anderson breathing in my general direction."

John rolled his eyes and stood next to Lestrade, watching Sherlock as he worked. Sherlock continued to snap at Anderson, while Donovan took down the notes of all Sherlock's deductions about the body. John could only marvel at how fantastic and brilliant it was.

"Things are finally getting back to normal," muttered Lestrade as Anderson stormed off, and Sherlock smiled smugly.

"If this is what you call 'normal,'" said John, smiling at Sherlock.

"This is going to be very fun," said Sherlock as he took John by the arm to lead him away from the crime scene.

"Where to now?" he asked.

"Home," said Sherlock lightly.

"But the case—"

"Lestrade will call back when he needs more," said Sherlock as they got into a cab. "I think you've rested enough, don't you, Dr. Watson?"

Author's note: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, started following the story and myself, and favorited it! Thanks also to my dear beta Emily who finds all my dumb errors! I really appreciate all the support and encouragement. Soon, I should be posting another story. I've written a few chapters, but I need to write several to make sure I'm heading in the right direction (I believe it'll be longer, and the chapters are much longer as well). I'm writing it a bit differently, but I hope it'll be enjoyable to anyone who liked this story as well. Keep and eye out, and thanks for reading!